Forwards We Must Go
by TheRamblingDabbler
Summary: John finds Sherlock after the fall, but not in the way that anyone thinks that he will. Short snippets, not continual. Not complete yet, descriptive of wounds so anyone who is queasy should read with discretion... Super angsty, hints of Johnlock. Enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

Blood speckled the concrete floor, swimming in and out of focus in a sickening way. His eyes did not want to focus; he blinked repeatedly. His head throbbed in a way that he knew he would hurt for days. His right foot was bleeding, why he had no idea. His train of thought completely derailed when he attempted to remember what happened. Whatever it was, it had left him handcuffed to a metal structure in an seemingly abandoned warehouse, bleeding out onto the floor.

He tried to lift his head from its position, leaning against the metal beam, and instantly regretted it. His vision went black, and he felt like the world was spinning around him, tugging him in all directions. Everything was fuzzy after that, He couldn't focus on anything. Not even the short statured figure running towards him, its footsteps banging through the empty rooms of the warehouse.

Suddenly, the man was right there, in front of his face, checking for a pulse and getting him to open his eyes. Up close, he'd be an idiot not to recognize this face.

"J-John... ?" Sherlock choked out, bewilderment in his voice and fear plunging in his stomach. The man looked up into his eyes sharply for a second, disbelief mixing with sorrow and hope. He quickly averted his eyes and focused on closing up the artery that had been savagely slashed open on Sherlock's leg. The blood stained his hands as he tried his best to keep the pressure on the wound.

"John... how... how... did you..." Sherlock attempted to form a coherent sentence but was quickly silenced by Doctor Watson's free hand pressed to his lips. John had a look of fear in his eyes that Sherlock had never seen the likes of ever before. He might have looked the same when Sherlock had jumped from the rooftop, a meer year and a half before, but Sherlock couldn't know for sure. John was scared. Scared that he would finally find his flatmate only to loose him once more.

"Jo-hggn, em usht onna eep awelking..." Sherlock slurred through John's calloused hand. John removed his hand with some trepidation, and began to wrap Sherlock's leg with strips of cloth that looked faintly like one of Sherlock's old scarves. John was trying very hard to stay detached so he could properly look after Sherlock. It wasn't working so well.

"I'm sorry. I had to. There was no choice, It was to protect you." Sherlock spoke slowly, enunciating every word carefully to insure his message was received perfectly. If John had been undone by his first words, he was a ruined man by the end of Sherlock's last. He couldn't stay detached, it wasn't possible anymore. Not now that the tears cascaded down his cheeks and his breathing quickened and hitched in his throat, threatening to choke him. The lump in his throat had grown like an unwelcome tumor and now seemed to close off his only way of breathing.

His hysterics only escalated when he saw Sherlock's eyes begin to drift shut, a sign that he was fading. He drew in the biggest breath he could and severed himself from his emotions, in order to save Sherlock, he must do this. He quickly repositioned Sherlock so that he lay flat on the ground, and made sure that the blood was clotting where the artery had been severed. He did a quick once over, checking for any other scrapes or bruising. There were many.

Almost all of them were not serious enough to be looked at in depth right in that instant. There was one or two though, that needed attention. There was a large swelling and bruising effect around the right temple of Sherlock's face, giving him a possible concussion. John stripped off his coat and balled it up, using it as a pillow for Sherlock's head. He couldn't have Sherlock lying flat with a possible concussion. The second was the odd angle at which Sherlock's arm was bent, not natural. He soon found that they must have stomped on his arm, shattering the bones in four or five places. He was surprised Sherlock wasn't driven mad with pain, it worried him how Sherlock seemed to have no realization of the pain at all.

He didn't dare attempt to assess Sherlock's mental condition. He simply hoped in the back of his mind that the brilliant mind that drew him in in the first place, was still all there and relatively unharmed. He came back to the present course of events, focusing on Sherlock, then on the handcuffs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay, so here's the deal. I'm so sorry it took me so long to get this up here, but this took me a lot of brain power to write. School had end of the year finals and everything was hectic. I kept switching in between POV's, I hope you all don't mind that much. It probably has a few grammatical errors, if so, I would love to know so I can fix those pronto, thanks. I really didn't think I'd be continuing this story so it was nice to know that someone likes it. I enjoy getting reviews, but you don't have to. It's just appreciated, that's all. Thanks to everyone who favorited my story, Thanks a bunch to those who gave reviews on the last chapter. I'm gonna shut up now so you all can enjoy my work. TheRamblingDabbler**

**Chapter 2**

John was sipping coffee and reading a newspaper, calm and content, relaxing in his favorite chair in their flat. It was almost as if it had never happened. He mentally flinched and tried to redirect his thoughts to avoid thinking about it. He heard Mrs. Hudson making her way up the creaky stairs.

He hadn't stayed in the flat in so long, his heart thumped a little quicker and adrenaline oozed into his veins until he realized it was only Mrs. Hudson.

"John? Why are you here?" Mrs. Hudson asked quietly, as she stood framed in the doorway. John look up at her and simply said,

"I'm coming home, Mrs. Hudson. I think I'd like to move back in if it's alright with you." Mrs. Hudson looked a little taken aback but she quickly overcame her surprise.

"Yes, that's fine dearie," she tutted, a small smile finding it's way onto her lips. She turned to go downstairs but then turned back as if in afterthought, saying, "If you're almost done with that coffee, I can make you a cuppa."

John looked at the small swish of desolate looking coffee in the bottom of his mug and smiled to himself.

"Thank you, a cuppa would be nice Mrs. Hudson. And-"

"I'll get you some buiscits to go with that dear." Mrs. Hudson smiled knowingly. "But just this once, I'm-"

"Not my housekeeper, yes. Thank Mrs. Hudson. " John finished her sentence for her and shook his head as she left the room.

John lifted his eyes from the paper when he heard a small moan of pain come from down the hall, Sherlock's room. He silently stood and made his way to the room.

Sherlock's eyes were open, but just slightly, he was obviously still under the calming effects of the drug that John had given him. John couldn't know for sure that Sherlock would remember this when he finally, actually came to. He was trying to close the door quietly, but when the hinges creaked ever so lsightly, Sherlock woke up a little more.

"John? ...Where am I? Am I…? Am I at the flat? This is my bed." His voice was slurred with sleep and slow with concentration. John imagined that it would take a lot of effort to keep up a conversation with so much of the powerful sedative still slowing him down. His eyes riveted on John as John walkied into his room. He closed the door behind him softly. He sat on the side of Sherlock's bed before talking.

"You're at the flat, Sherlock. Of course this is your bed, couldn't very well have you sleeping on the couch in this condition." He spoke softly, remembering the headache Sherlock had complained about earlier.

"This condition?" Sherlock prompted him, after only a second of frowning. There it was again, that inability to realize he was hurt. John frowned and then pursed his lips before deciding to just tell him outright, to avoid any annoyance, and unnecessary confusion.

"You have a broken arm, in multiple places. A mild concussion, slowing you down. You have a healing artery in your right leg that you mustn't stand on or it will open up again and you'll loose even more blood. And there are more than a few odd scrapes and bruises. You're probably going to be pretty sore for the next few days. " John spoke the facts, cold and unemotionally. He did a mental double take a second later, thinking, _Oh god, I'm turning into a Sherlock._

Sherlock's eyebrows were close to touching by the time John finished listing off his injuries. Something was wrong, besides the obvious of course, But Sherlock's drug addled mind felt like a machine with too much grease clogging the motor gears; slow and grinding, painful.

"How long will I have to stay in bed?" Sherlock asked, already sick of it.

"As long as I deem you unfit to get out." John replied. A genuine smile tugged at a corner of his mouth and it felt odd. He hadn't smiled, not really smiled, in months and within two or three short conversations with Sherlock, He was beginning to smile again.

"John, Do you have anything for this headache?" Sherlock asked innocently, carefully watching John's reaction. John didn't have a easy to read reaction though. He simply said that he had enough medicine in his system, and that it shouldn't hurt yet. Then John ordered him to sleep, saying that, he needed the sleep, it looked like he hadn't slept in a year and a half.

Sherlock was confused. So very confused. He was expecting a John to be mad that Sherlock had faked his death, he expected some of that anger to bleed through into their conversation, making him be short with him that he couldn't have the pills. But he wasn't. He had no emotion at all. Why did that make Sherlock feel so much worse?

Sherlock's eyes drifted closed, the last image they saw, dancing on the inside of his eyelids. John, sitting on the edge of his bed, his hand placed protective and comfortingly on Sherlock's knee.

John sighed quietly to himself, standing up to stretch his tight back. He had been sitting with Sherlock for most of the night, why, he didn't even know. After about half an hour of sitting there, he had realized that he still had his hand cupping the other man's knee. His face warmed as he carefully removed his hand, fearful that Sherlock might awake. His fave was read and hot as he quietly, but quickly, stood to flee the room. He couldn't do this, He couldn't watch his impossible friend sleep and not go insane. He didn't want to leave Sherlock alone though, for more reasons than a less than full night of sleep. More selfish reasons.

He tried to redirect his thoughts again, but this time it was too late. He gave in to his selfish wants and pulled up a chair next to Sherlock's bed. He wanted to be here when Sherlock woke up, really woke up, to tell him that everything was okay, and to make sure he wouldn't disappear again. He also was there simply because he knew if he fell asleep anywhere else in this flat, he would have that nightmare again. It was highly repetitive but was still scary as fuck. It always started out with the fall, and then when Sherlock finally slammed into the concrete, the blood of his flatmate would mix with that of his friends in the army, and all the people he had tried to save. It rapidly would spiral out of control into a seemingly never ending show of all the people who died in front of him, or in his arms, or on his operating table.

He kept a near perfect vigil all night long, only nodding off once, and only leaving for about a total of five minutes. He had to go to the bathroom, in a bad way too. When he stepped out the door and successfully closed it quietly, he noticed the tray of tea and biscuits set just to the right of the doorway. Oh. He had forgotten that he'd asked Mrs. Hudson for those. Shame, it's probably gone cold by now John thought as he picked up the tray and set it in the kitchen. He was washing his hands when he heard Sherlock cy out in pain. Be bolted to the messy bedroom to find out what was the matter. His heart thudded loud in his chest as he opened the door and peered inside the dark room.

**Trollololol…. Now you all have to wait until I finish the next chapter to know what happens! **

**MUHAHAHAHAHA! Just having a bit of fun, hope you all liked it! **

**Review if you want, they are appreciated.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Oh god. What did I just write. I am so, so, sorry. Truly, I am. I am crying over my own plot twist. I am a horrible person. I don't know where this is really going, this is just my write when I can story that will develop as I go. Sorry for any inaccuracies on my part with the medical issues in the past two chapters. And I really am sorry for taking so long with this. It takes a lot out of me to write this story, I'm not sure why… Anyways, I'm rambling again so I'm gonna just let you read now. Enjoy. **

**Chapter 3**

Sherlock lay twisted in his sheets, breathing fast and sweating. His eyes stared into the empty space on the chair as if it was the most horrendous thing ever to exist. Sherlock watched as the door opened slowly. Sherlock sat up fast and bright eyed with fear.

"STAY AWAY FROM ME." Sherlock bellowed as he saw a figure enter the dark room. He shook with fear and adrenaline, momentarily numbing the pain in his leg. He wondered for a second if they had done this to him. To torture him, to bring about the end of his now fragile mind. They must have. This can't be real, this can't be his room in 221B Baker street. He knew this. Yet his mind was unsure, not yet one hundred percent certain. There was something tugging at his brain, telling him something was wrong here, yet he could not see what.

The figure had frozen on the threshold, face in the dark. Sherlock looked closely at the man; A man who would freeze at the words of an invalid man in a bed. Out of fear? No. No one would be afraid of Sherlock right now, not in his state. _In this condition._

The words echoed in his head, having some sort of meaning behind them, but he couldn't find the memory they related to, it was missing in his files. His mind palace held no answers for him either and he leaned back against the pillows, resigning himself to just be patient. He would know who the man was when he turned the light on. It still bothered him that he could not deduce who the man was.

"Sherlock, it's all right. It's just me. Just John." The words were soothing, but when John stepped into the room, and flicked on the lights, Sherlock could see clearly that the calming words did not reach his eyes and that scared him more than the fact that John was standing in front of him, accepting that he was back. No shouting. No pursed lips. No held in temper. Nothing.

"John?" Sherlock asked, looking very confused. How could he have missed that the man was John? He felt like an idiot. "You have no reaction. I thought you'd be angry." Sherlock's voice was low, and he stared John in the eyes. John stared back, sadness tinting his eyes.

"I was angry, Sherlock. But then I decided it didn't matter anymore. The only thing that matters is that you make it through the day. I don't matter. You do." Sherlock was having mixed feelings all of a sudden. He was happy that John wasn't angry, and displayed emotions like he used to, but he hated that John thought that he didn't matter. John mattered a lot to him, and he better realize it.

"You do matter. A lot. I feel like I said this before, but I'm sorry. I had-" John cut him off.

"to. I had no choice. I did it to protect you." John paused. "That's what you were going to say wasn't it? I've heard it before. You've been saying it every day. It all comes back to that. Every day." John sighed and made to leave the room.

"Every day? What do you mean, Everyday? I've only been back for a bit. At least I think so, I don't know how long I was out. " Sherlock spoke quickly, a desperation in his voice that he didn't understand. His subconscious screamed at him to cover his ears, that he didn't want to know this, like it already knew. His breathing got deeper, as if preparing to dive deep underwater. His body was trying to tell him something but he ignored it. John turned to take one more sad look into Sherlock's desperate face, and he crumbled.

"You've been back for a month, Sherlock." Sherlock's head spun, he couldn't believe that. It was impossible. How? John answered his unspoken question.

"The first night you were back, I stayed with you here in Baker Street. Helped you recover from your injuries." John snuffed long and loud. He let out a shaky breath and continued. "I knew you had gotten hit pretty bad on the head, but I had no idea of the damage done until the next morning. You couldn't remember coming back or the warehouse that I found you in. You just remembered the fall, and the first year after. The rest is gone. Each day when you finally come to terms with it, it's like your back to your old self again. Except you're not. You wake up the next morning with no memory of the day before. "

Sherlock was shocked. John was crying.

**I'm evil, I know. I'm so sorry! I had to do it though. I hope it was worth the wait for those who actually waited for this. I am not really sure when I will get to write the next one as I'm trying to finish Merlin fanfics and actually finish watching the series… so, who knows. Please review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Day 33

"What did the doctors say? Because you must have taken me to the hospital at some point no?" Sherlock inquired over his toast and coffee. He was very calm today; He took lots of what John had to say at face value. John found it odd but at least Sherlock would get up. He had spent the last week lying bed every day and refusing to get up, to eat, and every day was the same, he said the same things. Over and over, they would tumble from his mouth like a well-rehearsed script.

"They didn't know why your mind does it. They think it's a sort of coping mechanism for the traumatic things that happened when you came back," John said. "They didn't get to finish all the tests because you backed out. If you want to go back in, we can, but it's up to you. We know what's important, that you lose all your short term memories every time you sleep," He finished. There was no reaction from Sherlock. He stared into his coffee. It was only when John reached out to touch Sherlock's arm across the table that Sherlock looked up at him.

"How long?" He asked.

"What?" John asked back. His hand withdrew to his side of the oddly clean table.

"How long have I been like this?" Sherlock clarified.

"A little bit more than a month," John said quietly.

"Ah."

"Yeah, we aren't sure if it's permanent…"

"Oh, of course it's permanent." Sherlock tutted. He left his half eaten toast on the plate and made his way to the living room, to his chair. John swallowed as he watched Sherlock hobble, try as Sherlock might he winced each and every time that his foot came into contact with the floor. The week he had spent in bed had not helped his range of motion. What he needed was physical therapy. Perhaps he could convince Sherlock to go to some for a few weeks. He thought about bringing it up but Sherlock was preoccupied with the cane propped up against his chair.

Long and slender, the matte black cane was about five and a half feet long with a silver steel tipped end. The top of the cane hosted a simplistic stainless steel orb, it's base wrapped around the top of the metal. Despite the size of the orb, the cane was perfectly balanced were one to hold it in the middle of its length, and it was surprisingly light. A small engraving upon the underside of the orb told of its owner: Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock tested it out by making his way back to the kitchen to stand in front of his old flatmate.

"It arrived in the mail yesterday evening. I don't know when you ordered it, but you must've," John told him.

"I didn't order it." Sherlock stated.

"How can you be so sure?" John asked.

"Because. I'd never consider such a thing." Sherlock said quietly.

"Mycroft then." John stated. Sherlock looked up at John oddly. John was preoccupied with putting some jam on his toast finally. Sherlock wondered what was off about John. Something wasn't right, but he couldn't place it.

"Speaking of, have you two been talking?" Sherlock asked, genuinely curious to see what his brother had been up to.

"No." John stated.

"Not at all?" Sherlock asked.

"Not since the day you fell." John said into his coffee. Sherlock wasn't sure how touchy of a subject the fall would be, especially now. John knew a lot more of what had happened since that day than Sherlock himself did. The pair lapsed into a heavy silence, neither wanting to broach the subject but still acknowledging its presence. Perhaps they'd already spoken on the matter, and maybe it'd just been avoided like the plague.

Only John knew, and lately it seemed to Sherlock, with his short term memory, that John had decidedly closed down. He'd shut himself away from the emotions, and the process of getting over it. He'd been in denial, Sherlock realized. He was doing something that was eerily similar to what Sherlock had done since before he'd met John. He was cold; without emotions. The only thing that differed was that John wasn't nearly as clever as Sherlock had been.

John looked up from his coffee suddenly and spoke. "You should start a video diary. Leave yourself an explanation so that I don't have to battle with you every bloody morning just to get you to believe me."

"Are you leaving or something?" Sherlock asked hesitantly; he was afraid of the answer.

"No, no. God, no. Not for good, I just have to leave the city in a week for the weekend, and I've been trying to brainstorm ideas on how that's going to work." John said quietly.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

"A funeral." John responded. Then he promptly went to get dressed and left. He mumbled something about doing the shopping on his way out the door. Sherlock spent the rest of the morning trying to play the violin and becoming frustrated when it failed to sooth his racing mind.

Day 35

Sherlock's eyes flew open and he leaped from his bed only to be shocked to tread on the hot conversion unit of a laptop power cord. Very tense and unsure, his eyes followed the cord to his open laptop set on his bedside table. There was a sticky note on the top right hand corner that read: Play Me. Sherlock followed the instructions after only a moment, realizing the handwriting was his own.

The screen glowed in the dark room and Sherlock found he had to sit down or risk falling down, because his right leg seemed to be in poor condition. The message that Sherlock himself had recorded just the previous day went through what had happened and that John would be leaving town in a few days, but other than that, he should be around. The last thing that the Sherlock on the screen did was remind Sherlock that his cane was propped up against the other side of his bedside table.

Sherlock plucked the cane from where it was propped and proceeded to examine it as best as he could in the dark room. Eventually deciding to trust it all, he used it to make his way to the kitchen. A single cup of coffee sat on the counter with a note set against the mug. It told Sherlock that it was the way he liked it and that Mrs. Hudson had taken the time to make it for him. Sherlock smiled to himself and sipped it silently as he made his way to his chair to sit until John woke up.


End file.
